


Where I belong (If it’s not here, I don’t know where)

by Elley



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Felicity's POV, It's like the show but not totally like the show, almost canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2020-12-29 09:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elley/pseuds/Elley
Summary: Where I belong ,or the 5 times Felicity Smoak felt out of place in her life, and that one time she didn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where the idea came from, and it's been on my mind for so long now that I can't remember how it started or when. Anyway. 
> 
> Shelby, thank you again so much for your undying support in the making of this story. Couldn't do this without you. 
> 
> Fair warning : this is a work in progress, and I'm a slow writer.  
English isn't my first language, I'm sorry for the mistake I surely made.

Felicity Smoak has always considered herself brave. Courageous. Able to deal with all the dangers life kept throwing her way. When you grow up like her - a poor kid in the middle of Vegas's luxury, a gifted child three times younger and smaller than any other kid in class - you know how to build walls that make the hardships easier to face.

For a while, she even managed to match her style to her - somehow vision of- bravery. College was the perfect place to be herself, or so she thought. She was a hacktivist, a tough little badass, until she realized she could be brave and fearless without having to wear black Lycra and heavy eye-liner all the time.

Today is basically the same. A different time and place, but the same barriers to face. Since she began working at Queen Consolidated, Felicity now uses her courage everyday. Crossing the IT department’s floor to go to the server's room has become quite a challenging walk. She's been recently promoted, after “the boss especially asked for it”, or so his supervisor - Donnie the Douche - has told her. Of course, her coworkers are not accepting her promotion well, especially since she’s the youngest (and the only woman) out of all of them. All the looks they throw at her, like she has the plague, have been hard to accept at first. She knows what people say about her. Too young to be effective, too pretty to be innocent, just a social climber using her knees to get to the top. But she has chosen to ignore the comments, rumors and side-eyes, and every morning, she puts the biggest – and most forced- smile on her face and crosses that open floor full of whispers, her head held high and her eyes focused.

Felicity Smoak is brave. No one can deny her that. 

Well, that’s what she thought before. Because today, at this exact moment, she isn’t so sure anymore. The two massive doors in front of her are giving her the chills. Okay, maybe it isn't the doors in and of themselves which put her on edge, (although the whole house is a little bit gloomy for her taste). No, it’s the idea of having to pass through those doors , and deal with the people behind them who makes her weak in the knees - and not in a good way.

What was she thinking, agreeing to Oliver's demands? Since he'd asked her earlier that week to find some data on a bank account located in the Caymans, (claiming he had forgotten all the info requested to unblock the money he put there in his youth), she hasn't really questioned her choice to help him. Oliver Queen is a nice and thoughtful guy, and he knows how to work that smile of his to make her cave. If she’s honest with herself, she has to admit she doesn’t like feeling this helpless when he asks her to do things that, deep down, she knows are not what he tells her they are, but she isn't ready to admit she kinda has a thing for him either. It’s harmless, after all, and she doesn't want to upset her boss’s step son too. It’s just a one-time thing, or maybe more like a ten-time thing, and she kinda likes the way assisting him makes her feel helpful. 

But now that she’s in front of the Queen mansion's doors, all those good feelings are quickly going away. Gathering all her courage, Felicity knocks quickly on the door, taking a big breath. Without a sound, the door opens, a tiny woman – the maid it seems – appearing before her.

\- “Hi, I'm Felicity Smoak, I'm here to see Mister Queen, he asked me to come here and see him…” she babbles to the maid, her nerves growing. 

\- “Come in, Miss Smoak,” the maid’s tone is warm and welcoming, and she seems not a bit bothered by her verbal vomit, “I'll tell Mister Queen you're here.” Without a pause, the maid opens the door, letting Felicity enter the house. And before she can even blink once, the maid is already gone, leaving Felicity alone in the hallway.

Her eyes wander around, sizing up the double stairs around her, the gorgeous windows above her head, and finally, land on the table near her. Spotting a few pictures, she walks by, looking with curiosity at the photographs displayed. The first one on the right is a black and white picture of the late Robert Queen with a little boy, all sandy blond hair and dimples, Oliver for sure. It’s a nice picture, full of joy and sweetness, showing a time before years, sadness, and sorrow hit Oliver's family. Such a shame all this horror happened to them. Shaking the feeling away, she lets her eyes drift to the next pictures, spotting in the back a nice portrait of a young and gorgeous girl. Thea, Oliver's sister, is beautiful in this shot, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Despite her lack of involvement in the upper society, Felicity is familiar with the youngest Queen, seeing her regularly on those crappy tabloid headlines, gushing about her new pair of heels or mocking her for her latest misconduct, sometimes both at once. But the girl she currently sees in the picture is so different it makes her heart ache. This little girl has suffered so much for someone so young. Although, Felicity isn’t sure if it's the loss of her family which has done that to her or the dissolute life that comes with owning so much money. All of a sudden, she wishes she knew how to help her, even if it’s definitely not her place to do so.

She begins to look at the other pictures when a throat scratching behind her makes her jump. Raising her head, she nearly bumped into Moira Queen, who just stands there in all her glory. Holy Frack! Felicity opens her mouth, ready to apologize for her curiosity, when she gets cut off in her attempt.

\- “Why are you here?" Oliver's mother asks her. "And who are you?”

She’s about to answer when footsteps on the stairs interrupt her again.

\- “Well, she must be one of Oliver’s conquests”, another feminine voice suddenly comments. “Or not”, she adds a second later, after Thea Queen has looked Felicity from head to toe.

Blushing furiously, Felicity tries to make her brain work enough to respond.

\- “I'm not”, she finally manages to answer, “I mean, I am somebody - I work for your son… and_ not _ the way you think I work for him, obviously. Well, I'm not working for him, but … I'm working for you, Mrs. Queen, at QC, the sixteenth floor.” She takes a quick breath, trying to calm her nerves and steady her respiration, and extends her hand toward the matriarch. “Felicity Smoak, IT Department.”

\- “Yeah, totally not one of Oliver's conquests, that's for sure!” Thea’s statement makes her slightly wince, the teenager failing to hide the smirk creeping on her face at that introduction.

\- “And why are you here, Miss Smoak?” asks Moira, not at all fazed by Thea’s snarky comment.

\- “Well, like I said, Oliver asked me to come over, to give him some data about… something.” Feeling more at ease (and choosing to ignore Thea mouthing “Oliver” with a raised eyebrow), she finally takes the time to look at the two women in front of her.

Moira Queen’s last name suits her perfectly. Every aspect of her matches what is said of the family’s matriarch. Cold, distant, with a penetrating gaze. Everything about this woman is intimidating. Her regal posture, the way she holds her head, like royalty, her hair impeccably organized in a complex but refined bun. The blue of her dress brings out the pallor of her skin. She oozes power from every pore, as she should, and she’s quick to make you realize it, with a haughty look of disdain.

Although she looks more like her father than her mother, Thea Queen has the same presence. Her short, sparkling silver outfit highlights the green of her eyes, drawing her curves, aging her by a few years while giving her a respectable elegance.

Suddenly, something clicks in Felicity's mind and all makes sense. Their outfits, the pretty hair, the jewels… it’s gala night for the Queens and she’s delaying them. She’s about to apologize for the inconvenience when Oliver enters the hall. If Felicity has not felt out of place already, she does at the very moment he sets foot in the hall.

Oliver is obviously talking, if the movement of his lips and the vague buzzing sounds she‘s hearing are any indication, but nothing is precisely intelligible for Felicity. All she manages to do is contain the drool that’s threatening to escape from her lips as she watches Oliver walk towards her. She already knew he was a nice specimen. His arrival in the IT department always triggers in her (and fifteen of her male colleagues) an unexplainable heat wave. Dressed with laid-back jeans or Italian-made suits, he’s always so sharp she has a hard time remembering he is her boss. Kinda. But tonight, he isn't just hot, he’s breathtaking. The tuxedo he’s wearing is perfectly shaped, fitting him like a glove. A bow-tie and suspenders are the cherry on top of a cake she would gladly eat everyday.

Realizing her thoughts are closing on inappropriate, Felicity shakes her head, chasing away the R-rated pictures plastered in her mind. “Focus on what he’s saying,” she chastises herself. It’s a task, she quickly finds out, difficult to accomplish, since Oliver is not talking anymore. Frak. Worse, he seems to wait for an answer, which means he probably asked her a question she didn’t hear. Who knew daydreaming could cause temporary deafness? The silence is mortifying, and nobody seems kind enough to help dig her out of the hole she’s put herself into. She’s sure her face is red like a tomato, and she can feel cold sweat dripping down the small of her back. 

\- “Mr. Queen, I'm sorry, if I knew you were about to go out, I'd have come later. I mean… sooner, not later,” she finally babbles, “not that I want to come into your home late at night, that wouldn’t be a professional thing to do, and I do not need to fuel the rumors that are running about me... not that I pay attention to them, far from it, but if...” She cut her rambling, surprised by the sudden sparks radiating from her arms. She tries not to choke on her breath when she realizes Oliver has put a hand on her arm in an effort to soothe her nervous monologue. Focusing on him and the warm sensation, she forgets the other two pairs of eyes currently watching her, and fixes her gaze on Oliver. She closes her eyes for a second, her mental countdown helping her regain her composure. 

\- “I have the documents you wanted Mr. Queen. I'm sorry to have disturbed your evening. I'll go now. If you want anything, you know where to find me.” She doesn’t give him the opportunity to answer; instead, she puts the files on the table, turns on her heels, trying to hide as best she can the blush she feels coming up again. 

Stepping through the doors, she gets back to her car as fast as possible. She feels so dumb she could cry. How a genius like her can so easily make a fool of herself just by opening her mouth, she really doesn’t know. Releasing the breath she didn't know she was holding, she wipes the angry tears escaping her eyes and tries to forget the debacle. But every attempt of oblivion is a failed one. Her brain won’t let her forget. She’s suddenly so angry with herself. She’s just a fool. A little girl unable to interact with the grown-ups. It was just small talk and harmless conversation. So, why is she even crying, for God’s sake? Deep inside, she knows the reason that makes her shed those tears. She has thought of herself as brave. Fierce even. But what’s the point of having those strengths when they’re gone the minute she starts speaking with people that matter? Sure, the Queens are intimidating, but if she can’t talk to them without rambling nonsense, how will she be brave enough to sell her ideas, to attract investors to start her company? If she is brave enough to withstand the snide comments of her coworkers, why have the snarky remarks of Thea and Moira made her feel so small? And if she is brave enough to be a woman in a field dominated by men, why has one man troubled her so much she goes running? 

Maybe she’s not brave enough to succeed like she hoped she would after all. Perhaps real success only truly belongs to the 1% world. And that's a world she's definitely isn't a part of.

**>>---> | <---<<**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your comment, kudos and overall support (here or on Twitter). It made my whole week.  
Here's chapter 2, hope you will enjoy it as well as the first one. 
> 
> \-------------
> 
> Chapter 2 takes around late season 1.
> 
> Fair warning : this is a work in progress, and I'm a slow writer.  
English isn't my first language, I'm sorry for the mistake I surely made.

Felicity Smoak is a persistent person.

She has realized very early the need to go all the way to the finish line, especially if she wants to see her projects succeed. She quickly got into the habit of always finishing what she had started, without leaving anything behind. That’s why she’s still there, on a Friday night, at midnight, waiting for the searches she has launched on Albert Davis. Not that she has anything more interesting to do - after all, what could a young single woman do on a Friday night? But the idea of being in her apartment, lying on her couch, a glass of wine in her hand while catching up on the episodes of Dr Who she has missed this week is much more attractive after spending 3 hours in that wretched-looking space.

Shivering, she takes another look at the room, made of concrete and old, rusty steel. Everything is dripping, dark and gloomy. She has tried to make the atmosphere more pleasant, even welcoming, since she has started spending most of her free time there, but it’s a waste of time. Sharing a basement with two men - one a former soldier accustomed to hostile environments, and the other a broody vigilante - has not helped her cause.

Thinking about it, she really hates this place. Or maybe not. She’s not totally sure. Maybe she hates it just a little. She’s torn about her feelings for the place, but it isn’t only because of the decoration (or lack of).

The first time she has set foot in this room, she has found the idea of having to carry her boss, bleeding more than he should have, in a green leather suit, in that cut throat place in the middle of the Glades, a little bit anxiety inducing. Being greeted by a gigantic guy armed with a pistol did not help to warm the mood either. In the first few days, she also didn’t like having to hide her presence in this basement, without knowing if someone could come and help her if there was a problem. Then, she has gradually come to terms with the special atmosphere of this room, the mission they’re all pursuing here being more important than any decor choices. She’s even surprised now to find she enjoys the place, especially during these special hours where she can talk with Dig, observe Oliver, or successfully hack as many federal agencies as possible.

An acute clamor draw her from her contemplation. It's starting to stir above her, and, for once, she is not sorry to be relegated to the basement. But fate is a bitch, it seems, because a recognizable and familiar beep escapes her computer right at the same moment, indicating that her search has yielded some results. Quickly scanning all the data she has obtained, she smiles softly, thinking that Oliver would be happy to “use” his bow on this low-level financier. At the same moment, realization hits her and she stops, a frown on her face. She’s going to have to actually go into the club to deliver the good news to said vigilante. 

That’s precisely why she hates the place these days. Since Oliver and Tommy have opened Verdant, the floor is teeming with half-naked and drunken youngsters, screaming and waving to the rhythm of the beats spat from the loudspeakers of the trendy DJ in the club. She knows that choosing to turn the old factory into a Nightclub was a way to effectively hide Oliver's nocturnal whereabouts, without exacerbating his family's suspicions about his many nights spent outside. Part of her also understands that Oliver's choice was also tied to Tommy, a way to reconnect with his best friend, whose life seemed so different from his now. However, she has difficulties accepting, in a purely selfish way, the vision of all these young women who made up two-thirds of the clientele, all more beautiful than the others, and most often partially dressed, parading and simpering upstairs.

Her main machine beeps again, reminding her of the reason for her presence in the basement. Suddenly she regrets the absence of Dig by her side. She has, however, appreciated the relative calm of the lair. After all, she has been the one insisting that Dig goes home to rest and enjoy his nephew’s presence. Nothing urgent to deal with, and Oliver is upstairs, playing the involved nightclub owner. But now that she has to inform him of the development, she feels suddenly lonely in the dripping basement. Taking a big breath, she goes to the stairs, determined to return quickly to her servers. She climbs the stairs two steps at a time, opening the door to the concealed corridor at the back of the club, and with a determined pace, she finally approaches the main hall. Without realizing it, she dusts off her pink cardigan and pulls at the simple denim skirt she has been wearing since morning. A sudden heat wave stops Felicity in her tracks. The atmosphere is stifling. A mixture of various scents - a subtle smell of perspiration, and remnants of cold tobacco - hit her nostrils, making her wince. Gathering all her courage, she begins to infiltrate the crowd. The late hour has already had an effect on the patrons: many couples are busy in the dark corners of corridors or booths, a group of young men is screaming next to the bar, shouting at each shot gulped, while a bunch of girls are admiring them with envious eyes, without any subtlety, probably trying to find tonight's new flavor of the month. Shaking her head, Felicity splits the packed crowd looking for Oliver on the VIP bridges. He often perches onto these spaces, less frequented and calmer, the height giving him a perfect position to observe the whole club. But her search of the area is in vain, lucky her, so she starts scanning the main room, finally spotting him near the secondary bar, on the other side of the dance-floor. Resigning herself, she begins to cross the dance floor, zigzagging between moving and sweating bodies, somehow avoiding elbows and wandering hands.

Even with the people surrounding her, she can’t lose sight of Oliver. He looks ridiculously good tonight, wearing his ‘Oliver Queen persona’ look. Felicity isn’t a fashion expert of any kind, but she can recognize a tailored, Italian made suit when she sees one. And tonight? Oliver is wearing the charcoal one she happens to love plenty. She used to lust over this particular suit when she saw him walk at QC. Felicity shakes her head quickly at that thought, making a face. Who she’s even kidding? No need to use the past tense here, she lusts over that suit every time Oliver wears it. Tonight is no exception. But tonight is different. Because tonight, there’s also a little reminder that she’s not supposed to lust over Oliver Queen attached to that suit. Named Laurel Lance. Who’s currently standing right beside him. Or, more accurately, glued to his arm. She’s speaking to a third party, in front of them - is that Tommy Merlyn?- but keeps throwing glances at Oliver, as if she’s making sure he’s not going anywhere. 

“Great” Felicity thinks. “The royal trinity is there to remind me where the plebe stands.”

She takes a deep breath to soothe her bubbling nerves -being in the presence of Laurel often does that to her- and, squaring her shoulders, she carefully approaches the trio. She stands there for a few seconds, waiting for them to stop talking to each other -actually, she waits for Laurel to finish her never ending story about some legal case she’s defending right now- but the more she waits, the more she feels like she’s transparent. Which must be the case, after all, because who would notice a plain Jane in a sea of models? She knows Oliver saw her, his eyes quickly glanced in her direction when she arrived, but he resumed his attentive listening of Gorgeous Laurel without saying a word. 

She finally resigns herself to the fact that she’ll have to interrupt the passionate lawyer and clears her throat to capture their attention. 

She can see three heads snapping in her direction at the same time, although none of them wears the same expression on it. Tommy Merlyn, the forever playboy, seems curious and slightly intrigued by her arrival. Both his eyebrows are up, and his eyes are currently reviewing her like she’s a item to bid for at some charity auction. His mouth is sporting a smirk that reveals all the thoughts currently passing through his mind and -ew. She should be proud and pleased to be at the end of that sort of smile and attention, but she’s too smart to forget they definitely don’t play in the same league, and she doesn’t intend to be flavor of the night number 26. In front of him, Oliver is silent and his face is almost blank, but a hint of something in his eyes makes her stop for a second. Unable to decode it at the time, she shakes the feelings away, thinking of a way to inform Oliver of the result of her search without revealing their secret to the two bystanders. She quickly glances at Laurel, whose perfect face is currently staring at her like Felicity has stomped on her feet. The sight is enough to make her choke on her breath, forcing Felicity to release an unplanned -and really embarrassing- series of loud coughs. 

The instant she starts choking on her own air, she can see Laurel turning toward Oliver, a visible scowl on her face.

“Oliver?” Laurel’s voice is sharp and cold, Felicity manages to notice. That voice could probably shatter glass if she tried to, thinks Felicity while she tries to regain her composure. “Do you know that girl?” 

_ Girl _. The disdain is evident, the blow hard to take, especially since the both of them have already met. But Felicity tries to hide the wince on her face, and pinches her lips together. “Keep it quiet, Smoak” she tells herself. “Breathe. Maintains the cover.” She can’t help but raise her eyebrows, bending her head a little to the side, looking directly at Oliver, before addressing Laurel’s question. 

“I’m Felicity Smoak, I’m the… let’s say, ‘tech support’… for Verdant,” she introduces herself, a fake smile plastered on her face. “I would say ‘Nice to meet you’, Miss Lance, but,” she pauses just a second, not enough for Laurel to actually notice but long enough for Oliver to pick up on the little pause, “we’ve already met, so. Nice to see you again.” She quickly glances toward Oliver, but his face is inscrutable. He looks focused, intrigued by her presence at this level of the club, but also a little bit amused by the exchange currently happening. Great. Oliver is laughing at her. As if it wasn’t already mortifying to be in the presence of these three gorgeous people, in a crowd full of other beautiful young people, when she’s just… her. 

“Of course we remember you, Miss Smoak” interrupts Tommy Merlyn. “It’s always a pleasure to see you in our humble nightclub. Although I wasn’t aware we had WiFi problems today,” he adds, a questioning look on his face. 

“I spotted it this afternoon when I was… checking on the supplies downstairs,” answers Oliver, not missing a beat. “I called Felicity so she could come after her other work. She works at QC,” he adds in the direction of Laurel, “in the IT department.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have confused her with a patron, that’s for sure.” replies Laurel, her eyes detailing Felicity from head to toe. “I’m thrilled to see Queen Consolidated has such _ dedicated _ employees.” The sarcasm is evident in her voice, making Felicity‘s stomach turn. “But isn’t it a little bit mean to have her come here after her actual work, Oliver? Poor girl, working on a Friday night instead of being out with her friends. Nobody I know would want to work on a Friday night,” Her laugh seems fake, as much as her concern. “I mean, not willingly and for free. But working late for Oliver Queen has its perks, I guess, or should I say rewards? Enjoying _ working _ late for Oliver, Felicity?” The not so hidden meaning behind her question makes Felicity flinch, and she recoils in shock. She’s about to respond when Oliver beats her to it, surprising her. 

“Laurel,” Oliver’s voice is sharp, an octave lower than usual, the warning evident. “Enough”. 

The brunette scowls, turning away to face Tommy, looking for support. Her boyfriend, who has stayed silent the whole interaction, seems a little disturbed, clearly not at ease in picking a side. It gives Felicity time to recover from the blow, while she tries really hard to remember the reason that pushed her out of the basement. 

“Felicity” Oliver’s voice is surprisingly soft, especially after the tone he employed with Laurel just seconds before. “You were saying?” 

“Right” she catches herself with a shake of the head. Time to bring the lying A-game. “The results of my analysis came back positive.” She can see, by the look on his face, that he doesn’t immediately connect the dots together. “The… hm, how to phrase it… connection between the computers has been established,” she starts, fighting really hard against the urge to air quote some words, “and I discovered a dysfunction that proves the main machine has indeed failed the system. I’m ready when you are.”

As she speaks, Oliver watches her intently, his eyes focused on her lips as if he is trying to read the words coming out of her mouth. And really, that’s not fair, because she’s trying really hard to not blush and babble at all in his presence, and he’s making it really hard right now. So she keeps it short, hoping he will get the meaning behind her words. When she stops, Oliver blinks a few times, his lips pinched in a straight line, a vague smirk twitching the corner of his mouth. He’s about to answer when Laurel speaks. 

“I’m sure you can deal with all this on your own, can’t you, Felicity? You’re probably smart enough to figure out what to do without help, that’s certainly the reason Oliver chose to use your services.” 

Right, why would he, if it wasn’t for her brain, right ? 

“Plus,” she continues, “you wouldn’t want to prevent Oliver from enjoying his friends on one of the only nights he’s free.” 

The tone is maternal at best, and if it isn’t enough to pass the message, the hand she places on his arms is here to remind her the real hierarchy. The meaning is clear : get lost, Felicity, you and Oliver are not navigating in the same circle. And Laurel is here to make sure of that. 

Looking at Oliver, Felicity can see the struggle on his face. The way his body is tense, slightly turned towards the lair's hidden entrance, the way he checks the hallway and the twitch in his fingers tells her all about the burning desire to flee the scene and put on the suit, to go after that garbage of a man who is using his connections to steal money from the city's social services. But on his face, she can read the want to just, for once, have a normal life, or what it appears to be, one where he can just spend two hours with his oldest friends, reminiscing about the good old times, and feeling like the man he used to be, before the wreck, before purgatory, before the team and the constant fight. She knows him too well. That’s why she makes the choice for him. She loves Oliver too much to deprive him of a night of normalcy with his real friends. The city won’t change over night. His fight can wait. _ She _ can wait. 

“You know what? Miss Lance is right,” she replies after a few seconds. “It can wait until tomorrow. I’ll leave a note on the computers to explain the situation to Mister Diggle, if he wants to look into it later, although I wouldn’t recommend that anyone” she makes sure to insist on the word “try to deal with this issue alone, without backup. For the data I mean.” She smiles a little, she needs to sell the lie after all, hoping the sadness in her voice won’t be noticeable, then adds “Enjoy your night with your friends, Mister Queen, I’ll still be there tomorrow to help with the tech issues.” 

She can’t make herself look at Oliver, not wanting to see the relief somehow visible on his face. She doesn’t want him to see the sadness on hers too, nor the tears that begin to blur her vision. So she quickly turns away, her head down and her breathing shallow, trying really hard not to think too much of the burning sensation she feels on her back as she goes back to her sanctuary, where the walls are blunt and the air chilly, but where she feels more welcome than anywhere else. Tech support often belongs to the basement, after all. 

**>>---> | <---<<**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where I belong ,  
or the 5 times Felicity Smoak felt out of place in her life, and that one time she didn't.
> 
> \------
> 
> Chapter 3 takes place around mid-season 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry it took me so long, but here I am.  
I hope you'll enjoy this new chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> This part wouldn't be nothing without the help of my precious beta. She deserves all the thanks in the world. 
> 
> Fair warning : this is a work in progress, and I'm a slow writer.  
English isn't my first language, I'm sorry for the mistake I surely made.

Felicity has always been a loner.

Not always by choice, sure, but most of the time, it has been her decision to be alone. Better alone than ill-accompanied, right? She learned very young that her parents couldn’t be around all the time. The biggest lesson came the day she realized even a smiley little girl like her couldn’t make a person stay. After her dad left, Felicity basically lived alone, what with her mom being busy working multiple shifts to provide a roof over their heads and food on the table for the both of them. The neighbors were nice but distant, probably because a blonde woman in her twenties coming back late at night in high-heels usually raised more suspicion than compassion in a city like Las Vegas. 

At first, she had followed her mother at work, but Felicity understood quickly that even the most crowded places could be lonely when nobody paid you any attention. Growing up, their little apartment in Vegas became her sanctuary, a place where she could enjoy the quiet and calm around her, using the silence to let her mind wander and come up with a hundred ways to improve her growing collection of tech. Being alone in school was mandatory. Hard to be the smartest of the bunch and not feel alone every _ single _minute of every day. It had been true in earlier classes, but even more in middle school, when it became clear her brain wasn’t the same as the other kids around her. By the time she entered high school, loneliness was basically her best friend, and she was happy with it. Long story short, Felicity Smoak is a lonely person, and she likes it a lot. 

Except today. Today is probably one of the first times of her life where Felicity doesn’t like being alone. Today, being alone and lonely sucks. 

She could spend a long time listing all the reasons why being alone sucks right now, beginning with the fact that it’s the reason she wound up here in the first place, but she is too busy freaking out to start doing so. Who wouldn’t lose it, if they woke up with a headache, cold all the way to the bone, missing one shoe, and with both wrists and ankles tied to a chair with some tape?

Well, thinking about it, she didn’t actually freak out, at first. Because she was actually very aware it could happen. That’s a risk you take when you go snooping around some abandoned warehouse your team of vigilantes suspects of being used as a hideout for the gun dealers they’re chasing at the moment. 

“Stupid girl,” she tells herself, closing her eyes in an instant. “You did this to yourself,” she replies to her own voice in her head, “so, stop complaining.” Keeping her eyes shut, she breathes slowly for a few minutes, trying to calm her raging heart and her growing migraine. She’s painfully aware her headache is the result of the hit she took to the back of the head. She just hopes she won’t pass out again, and that she can manage to stay focused enough to think of a way to get out of here. She turns her head slowly to the left, groaning a little when strikes of pain run all the way down her body with the movement. 

As her eyes finally adjust to the darkness of the room, she manages to catch some details about her current location: she’s close to a corner, the walls behind her are tall, maybe 30 feet high, without any windows. Around her, there’s a large amount of wooden crates, “probably where they keep the weapons,” she thinks, stockpiling that information in a corner of her mind. Right in front of her, she can spot a large window, situated at nearly 15 feet above the ground. “So no escaping from here is what you’re saying,” she sarcastically tells herself. “Great.” She spots a door on her left, but quickly realizes she would have to run to it without any cover, and she’s pretty sure the people keeping her here will catch her before she even makes it to the center of the room. In the distance, she can spot a few chairs sitting around a barrel, and if she pays attention, there’s chatter coming from the right corner of the warehouse she’s kept in. They’re hidden behind what seems to be a vehicle, and are too far for Felicity to really understand what they’re currently saying, but loud enough for her to learn her captors are in the same room as her, and more than two. 

“That escape plan is shaping up really nicely,” she thinks, trying really hard not to cry from desperation. Going in blind (and alone) in a place like this wasn’t the perfect choice to start with. But she has made that choice, and now she needs to deal with the consequences. First, she has to focus and calm down. Using the breathing technique Dig taught her earlier in the month, she manages to gradually lower her heart rate back to a normal pace, and her hands stop shaking. After a while, she’s more serene – as serene you can be in a situation like this – and she can feel her brain clearing itself of the fog created by her panic attack. Closing her eyes, she tries to remember all the useful information she has of the place. If she concentrates just the right amount, she can envision the blueprint she pulled from the internet right before leaving the Foundry. 

After all, while she has indeed chosen to go alone, she hasn’t been stupid enough to go to the place without any resources. She has prepared for her mission like any member of the team would have, really. The only rule she has broken slightly is the one saying to always have backup when going to a suspect's hideout, or, at least to always notify the other team members of your location.

She had considered telling the team when the tip they had received checked out. But John wasn’t there, already working a lead with Lyla, back at ARGUS’s headquarters, and she had feared that waiting for him to come back would lower their chances of getting the evidence they needed before the shipment got sold. Roy was working upstairs at Verdant with Thea, but Felicity hasn’t been too keen to have the young boy lie to his girlfriend. Plus, with that Mirakuru stuff running in his veins, Felicity wasn’t really sure she could count on him to back her up the right way. Oliver and Sara had remained the only ones left on her list, but they had both disappeared half an hour earlier, and she hadn’t been brave enough to go lurk in the back room of the lair to inform them of the situation.

Just thinking about what she could have come across, Felicity shivers. Because even if she likes Sara, and Oliver, and wants nothing more than their happiness, she _ so _ doesn't need to see them being all… sweaty together. Aside from training, of course, but who would go in the garage to work out when the main room was full of training mat and equipment? At least, they have the decency to leave the room now, she realizes. She has to admit the first few weeks of the Oliver-Sara relationship had been rough for her. Logically, seeing Oliver be so touchy and attentive with Sara was a nice change, but emotionally? Her heart wasn't on the same page as her head. And even if the Lance sister is a real improvement from the slip that had been his dalliance with Isobel Rochev, Felicity can’t help but be hurt Oliver has chosen to go back to Sara, especially after telling her he couldn’t be with someone he cared about. Clearly, it had been a lie said simply to appease her anger, and she feels rather betrayed by the archer. She had taken a leap of faith, trying to make him understand the depth of her feelings for him, and his answer had made sense, even if she hadn’t accepted all the reasons behind it. But realizing he just distorted the narrative to spare her feelings has been difficult to swallow. She would have preferred honesty, even brutal and painful, over deceit.

Although, she must admit that Sara is a good addition to the team. She’s a woman, for one, and Felicity has to recognize it’s nice to have another female teammate in the vicinity. Oliver, Dig, and Roy can be awesome partners, but sometimes, so much testosterone in the same place can be hard to deal with. Not that she’s talking nail polish or cute outfits with Sara, but the more friendly presence is somehow improving the mood in the lair. Plus, she can totally fight, and she isn’t afraid to challenge Oliver, which require some level of bravery, especially when he’s all worked up on adrenaline, or shutting down in his own – dark – bubble.

A noise in the right corner of the warehouse pulls Felicity out of her thoughts. She concentrates on listening to the weak sounds, her heart beating quickly in her chest. She manages to identify the hum of a vehicle engine, and soon enough, she hears voices. Failing to pick up most of the words, the urgency behind the orders being given is enough to provide her some clues. They sound tense and in a hurry, and the sudden departure of the car, along with the low rumble of boots tapping on the floor, confirms Felicity’s suspicions. She’s watchful for a few minutes, breathing as few times as possible, eyes closed and chin on her chest. Like that, she will be able to hear if some of her captors come near her spot, and maybe they won’t bother her if they think she’s still unconscious. As if on cue, a sliding door closes in the background, and she hears sounds of footsteps coming her way, making her breathing hitch. Felicity manages to catch the sound of two different strides, meaning there are two guys approaching her, and despite the blood flow that rages in her ears, she finally listens to the thugs take a seat near the barrel. 

Felicity manages to stay motionless a good five minutes before the little voice in her head starts to tell her she needs a plan to escape, ASAP. She’s pretty aware of that, but right now, she’s struggling a lot with the mode of said escape. Fighting those thugs isn’t an option. While she’s been training with Diggle for a couple of weeks now, she’s not in shape enough to just throw herself at them and tackle the duo. Plus, her back is killing her, she still hasn’t figured out how to get rid of the tape that holds her to the chair, and a desperate need to scratch an irritating sensation in her ear actively distracts half of her ability to think.

Wait. That particular thought makes her stop for a minute, just enough for her memories to come back. She did prepare for the mission like the rest of the team. Meaning she packed a weapon (although her taser is nowhere to be seen) and a comm. Which, if she has to guess, is still in her possession, considering the feeling of discomfort coming from her ear. Although, the blow she took to the head must have altered the device, because she would have noticed by now if sound was coming from it. Discreetly, she opens her eyes to have a peek at her captors, who appear to still be engaged in an animated conversation she can’t comprehend from here. Good for her, she realizes, because heated conversation means less surveillance of the not so threatening blonde in the back. She uses the opportunity to slightly move her head to the right, her shoulder rising to meet her ear in an attempt to make her comm work. But all she picks up is static, and as quickly as hope had risen, she loses all faith in getting out of this nightmare.

Gosh, she desperately needs the team right now, or at least a little bit of advice. What would her teammates do in this situation? Thinking about it, Oliver would never have been caught in the first place. Roy would probably have broken the chair the second he’d regained consciousness. Sara would have charmed her captors and then probably choked them with her legs or something, duct-tape be damned. As for John, Felicity is sure he would have taken a more subtle approach, a way to use his temporary detention to gather information and secure some evidence at the same time. But Felicity isn’t any of them, obviously.

She allows herself a few seconds to wallow in her misery, letting her mind build up some pretty ugly scenarios about how she’s going to die on her fist – unauthorized – solo mission. Her teammates will probably find her in the morning, in that empty warehouse, beaten to a pulp because she foolishly wanted to prove her worth to the team. She’s well aware by now that her insecurities might have been a little bit too important these past few days, leading her to be less rational than usual, and behave more like Sara than herself. But, of course, she isn’t Sara, and she was foolish to think she could ever be. She should have stayed in the Foundry, with her precious tech babies and her comfy chair, working her expertise for the team, being the voice in their ears, and not the thorn in their side. 

A sharp pain in her neck jolts her from her thoughts. The position she chose earlier has definitely stiffened her muscles, and she begins to feel the urge to stretch her back. She rolls her neck a little bit, a groan escaping from her against her will. The sudden silence tells her her captors definitely heard that. 

“Seems like Blondie here is awake,” one man grunts without turning. “Time to make her talk.” She can hear the chair scraping the floor with their movement, the hairs on her arm rising with horror. She does her best to control her breathing, and forces her face to relax. She won’t give them the pleasure of thinking they have some power over her, even if, just below the surface, she’s scared to death. She opens her eyes just in time to see the other man approaching her, a devious glint in his eyes that instantly makes her shiver. She watches him drag his chair in front of her, and even if she really wants to scream right now, she manages to keep her composure straight, just enough to irritate the punk a little bit. He’s quiet for a moment, and she can see he’s studying her, reviewing her from head to toe, his eyes lingering on her cleavage far too long for her liking before landing on her face once more. 

“Who sent you?” He asks abruptly. She takes the time to blatantly breathe, using the moment to think of a way to turn the situation to her benefit. “Who sent you?” The question rings again in her ears, but this time, the tone is less gentle and more annoyed. Showtime, Felicity. Try not to get yourself killed in the next 5 minutes. 

“Nobody sent me, I’ll have you know.” The steadiness of her voice surprises her, considering she’s a puddle of fear inside. “I’m totally capable of making decisions all by myself, thank you very much, we’re not in the 19th century anymore, are we?” 

The look on his face makes her aware the man in front of her doesn’t really like her answer. Too bad, she thinks, because that’s the only one he will get. Because it’s the truth. Kinda. 

“For the last time, who asked you to spy on us? Does the Bertinelli clan hire women to do the job, now?” He laughs, turning his head for a second towards his acolyte. “After the stunt Bertinelli’s daughter pulled last year, I would not be surprised if nobody with a brain wants to work for them.” 

“I already told you, nobody asked me anything. I wasn’t even spying. My car broke down in the neighborhood and I was looking for help. Could have asked me that before you knocked me out and tied me to that chair.” 

She hopes her lie is credible enough for them to cut her some slack, but she can see in his attitude that he’s not convinced even a bit. 

“Listen, Blondie.” The tone is harsh now, and she can tell he’s losing his patience. “Let’s make this easy for everyone and not drag this conversation out for too long, shall we? Just tell us who told you to come snoop here and we’ll let you go. Deal?” 

She can’t help the snort that escapes her lips, and she immediately knows it’s the wrong move. The slap she receives takes her by surprise. The blast from the hit nearly sends her to the floor, the chair rocks toward the left onto two legs before landing again on all four. But Felicity barely records the chair’s movement, blinded by the fact her face hurts too much for her to focus on anything else. Pain radiates from her right cheek, and she can already envision where the bruise will form. Her upper lip burns, and she can feel blood dripping down her chin, telling her she now has a split lip. She can feel the tears prickle in her eyes, and she fights hard to keep them inside, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. But she’s not dumb either, and she stays silent, her eyes lowered and fixed on a dent in the floor. 

“I’m going to give you ten minutes to think about a new attitude, and then, I’ll ask you again.” She hears the man growl, before he leaves her to join the other guy again. 

Quietly, she inhales a few times, hoping it will chase the hurt away. The lump inside her throat makes it burn every time she swallows, and she pinches her lips together to prevent a moan of pain from escaping her. She urges her brain to come up with a solution which could help her avoid a new beating while not selling her partners out in the process. She’s about to give in to panic when a noise makes her stop. Focusing on it, she quickly recognizes that it’s coming from her own ear. It’s faint but it’s there. Realization dawns on her; the hit she received shook her comms enough to make them functional again. At first, she can only pick up static, but after a little tampering with her shoulder, the device bursts to life. 

“Dig, I’m on site.” The sound is low, barely above a growl, but it’s enough to make her heart jump. She can’t help but close her eyes, breathing a little bit easier at the sound of Oliver’s voice. “I can see three warehouses from here, all guarded by ten hostiles each.”

“So, you were right.” Dig’s low voice makes her heart swell. “I never thought I would say this, but good call putting that tracker inside Felicity’s glasses.” She’s about to protest when a much higher voice cuts off her growing indignation before it can begin. 

“I bet you will love the yelling coming your way if she ever learns about this!” The snark in Sara’s voice makes her smile, even if she’s not sure if it’s from the tone, the picture of her biting Oliver’s head off that instantly came into her mind, or the accuracy of that statement. 

Felicity hears Dig chuckle and Oliver growl, both at the same time, and she can’t stop the longing feeling that creeps its way to her chest where it suddenly blossoms. She wishes she could be with them right now, on the comms, laughing at whatever Sara would say to annoy Oliver, knowing all too well their banter is a way to release a little bit of the tension the current mission is putting on them. But _ she _’s the mission this time, and the thought quickly sobers her. 

“What’s the plan, now, Oliver?” she hears Dig ask the other man. The answer is immediate. 

“I can’t see where they’re keeping Felicity from here. I need to go in. Sara, you’re taking the right entrance. Dig, stay back just in case they try to leave with Felicity.”

“Copy that.” The tension in Dig’s voice is perceptible, as if the incoming assault is more important than usual. “Be careful though, you’re going in blind, since Felicity isn’t there to provide the warehouses’ blueprint.”

She can hear the distinct ‘click’ made from Dig’s comms shutting down, and then the sound of Oliver’s bow firing a grappling arrow. After that, all she can hear is the noise of fighting. Most of the sounds are muffled, but she can pick up some of them. The grunt of pain from the men being hit by Oliver’s arrows, the singular sound of leather on bow string, the windy breath made by Sara’s bo-staff slicing through the air before landing on her attackers. 

She’s so focused on the battle happening in her ear that she barely reacts to the movement in the warehouse at first. But the voices of her captors are getting louder and, with the way they’re rapidly talking on their phones, she finally registers that they must have taken notice of Oliver’s arrival. She tries to focus on what they’re saying, catching a few words about “moving the guns” and “needing more guys”, when a sharp yell makes her jump. She listens to the sounds in her ear, urging her heart to just stop beating so fast at the moment so she can decode what the hell is happening. After a while, the noises fade out, signaling that Oliver and Sara have departed from the crowded part of the warehouse to regroup. 

It may be her only chance. Glancing quickly at her kidnappers, who are still arguing on the phone, Felicity suddenly lowers her head right onto her shoulder, tampering the best she can with her own comms. “Oliver! Can you hear me?” She really hopes her whispers aren’t as loud as she thinks they are. But she gets no answer from the archer, and the line is suspiciously quiet right now. “Oliver, Sara,” she tries again, “can anybody hear me?”

A sudden click makes her hopeful for a second, but what she overhears drains all the blood from her face in an instant. 

“Oliver, you can’t keep going in there, you’re hurt and you’re almost out of arrows!” Sara’s voice is barely above a whisper, but Felicity can hear it as clearly as if she was next to her. Her heart rate spikes immediately at the thought of Oliver being hurt, and she can feel a wave of nausea rising in her stomach. She closes her eyes for an instant, trying to steady her breathing. Oliver is used to being hurt in combat, but it’s never easy to witness the way his face contorts when he comes back to the foundry. Plus, Sara’s concern for his safety tells Felicity that Oliver’s injury is more than the usual cut or bruise he can collect sometimes. If Oliver is in bad shape, and even if it’s not to her advantage, Felicity agrees with Sara. If Oliver is hurt, he needs to go back to the foundry and get treatment. She won’t forgive herself if something happens to him because he chose to rescue her instead of taking care of his wounds.

Silently, she sends a prayer to whoever is listening for Oliver to be okay, and she keeps breathing slowly until she’s sure she can talk without her voice quivering at every word. She’s better for a second, but her mind isn’t eased enough for her body to fully get the message and stop shaking. Gosh, she wishes she could be braver and stronger, and defend herself against her attacker, but she’s useless, weak as hell, and without any fighting skills to balance her lack of weapons. All she can do is stay awake, and maybe she will be able to babble her way to freedom. Maybe.

“Hey, you two,” she calls out, “I know your place in the hierarchy gives you the right to claim the places near the iron barrel in the center of the room, I mean, I would have taken that spot too, but you didn’t have to put me in the ugliest corner with that dozen of crates. I’m usually great company, you know, so... if you would just, I don’t know, remove these ties around my ankles and wrists? No? Guess I’ll just need to stay in this windowless corner and watch the sunrise in front of me then.” She tries to be relaxed and keep her voice light, but internally, she’s fighting hard to not cry like a baby and call for her mom.

Her guardians barely look at her, groaning something she can not understand, leaving her more desperate than ever. But suddenly, her comms clicks in her ears, and it feels like Hanukkah in March.

“Felicity, you’re a genius,” Dig’s voice is like a balm to her heart. But she can also hear the concern in his voice and… maybe she’s hallucinating, a little bit of pride? Anyway, she’s just glad they could finally hear her and understand what she was trying to do. “Oliver, Felicity’s comms are working, and she’s transmitting info on her location. Look for a big room with windows only on the East side. Two guards, probably armed. Felicity is between some crates, tied up.”

“Oliver, this is not safe.” She picks up some disapproval in Sara’s voice. “I know you want to save her, but you need to think more clearly. Let me take you to the foundry, and Dig can come with me to pick her up, after he’s taken care of your wound.”

“Sara, I’m getting her out of here,” Oliver snaps. “With or without your help. And you’re in my way.” The warning is loud and clear, even if Oliver doesn’t need to actually speak the words to make the point. The growl is enough to pass the message. Felicity tries to concentrate, listening to the variety of sounds coming into her ear. She can probably help, if she could just focus enough to pick up what’s happening. But she realizes she doesn’t have to concentrate too much, because the sounds are closing on her position. Screams are coming from right outside the warehouse, and she can totally picture the remaining thugs trying to defend themselves from Oliver and Sara. A sudden salvo of gunfire outside the door makes her jump in her chair, as well as triggers her captors into action. While the first one arms his gun with a shaky hand, the second one turns towards her, a knife in his hand. Bile rises in her throat, and all she can do is pull on her bonds, hoping they will break. But the tape is strong, holding her to the chair without a possibility of defending herself. 

“Wait!” she screams, in an ultimate effort to alter her seemingly imminent demise. “You don’t have to do this, I don’t even know your name. And I have a terrible memory, I promise, I won’t be able to identify any of you, I swear!”

But the goon closes in on her, and much to her surprise, cuts her restrains and lifts her from the chair. 

“Shut up, bitch,” he growls, pushing her in front of him, his blade on her throat. At the same time, the door opens with a crash, an arrow flying through the air to disarm the gunman in front of her. Felicity can’t help but release a shaky breath, relieved he made it to her in one piece. She quickly searches for Oliver’s injury, but even if he’s walking towards her, he’s still too far and she can’t manage to assess the damages. His bow is drawn, and she can spot his eyes under the hood and his mask, focused on his target. He’s slowly moving across the room, closing in on them steadily, like a hunter on his prey. 

Behind her, she can feel the man tremble with fear, and his hand is clamped so tight on her left arm she’s convinced she will have bruises tomorrow.

“Stop moving, or I’ll kill her!” he finally yells, his mouth so close to her ear she winces. The threat is enough to make Oliver stop, at least temporarily. 

“Don’t do anything stupid - just let her go,” Oliver orders. He’s closer now, and she can see he’s limping a little, probably because of that injury Sara mentioned earlier. Focusing on his face once more, she catches the moment his eyes depart from her attacker to concentrate on her face. At first, his eyes are moving fast, inspecting her from head to toe. She must look awful, she suddenly thinks, after a night taped to that chair, with rumpled clothes and missing a shoe. She studies his reactions, trying to decode what’s going on in his head. He seems reassured by the absence of wounds on her body, and he quickly abandons his inspection to focus on her face. She can spot the exact moment he takes notice of her split lip. His demeanor changes slightly, in a subtle way her attacker can’t possibly see: his back tenses a little, his arm tugging more and more on the bowstring, his eyes more black than she’s ever seen them. He’s angry, Felicity realizes. As she thinks about it, she realizes - if she were in his place, she'd be mad too. Being forced to intervene and save a teammate trapped in a bad situation that they foolishly placed themselves in? Upsetting. Finding out that the very same teammate utilized none of the hours of survival skills training that you gave them? Infuriating. He's right to be mad. But still, noticing the sentiment in Oliver’s eyes, it hurts like hell. She’s not sure if it’s from the disappointment or the shame, but it’s all the same. She’s responsible for this mess, and she did nothing to help her partners deal with it. She’s pretty sure she made it worse, wandering into a place she had no business being at in the first place. 

It’s the click from the voice modulator that pulls her out of her moping. 

“Let. Her. Go.” The injunction is more intense this time, his voice growling with anger. Much to her surprise, the man behind her snorts. 

“You won’t do anything, Hood, because this little bitch is in between us. And I’m sure you don’t want your floozy to have new holes in her body, do you?” 

The cold blade of his knife is now pressed more firmly against her neck, and all she can do is pray nothing will make the man jump, or she won’t get to see the next episode of Doctor Who. Fighting against the nausea that threatens to take over, Felicity struggles to breathe for a moment, her eyes still riveted on Oliver’s. He’s not moving, but his eyes are squinted up, and he’s as tense as his bow string. Her captor must have sensed the change in the atmosphere, because all of a sudden, he’s dragging her to the left, probably towards the crates and the door. Surprised by the hasty move, unbalanced because of her missing shoe, she stumbles on the guy, causing her attacker to release the blade pressure on her neck. Seizing the opportunity, she elbows him in the stomach, using all her weight to destabilize the man. Caught in his upcoming crash, she tries to push his hands off her, managing to only nudge the blade a little from her neck, but not enough to spare herself from a cut to her collarbone. A rush of burning pain washes though her upper body, and she can’t suppress the scream that lets loose from her mouth, her cry echoing through the empty warehouse. Through the daze caused by the pain, she suddenly hears another scream, lower this time, and feels the man fall, releasing her completely. Raising her head up so quickly she sees stars, she has to brace herself on a nearby crate to catch her breath. Before she can fully realize what has happened, she catches movement in front of her. Lifting her chin, she watches Oliver approaching with haste, a concerned look on his face. 

“Felicity,” her name sounds so strange with the modulator, “-are you…” Oliver doesn’t get to finish his sentence before the door opens in a crash, prompting him to take up a defensive position right away. But it’s only Sara, coming in a rush, bo-staff in hand. 

“Great, you’re both here.” She seems a little out of breath, but Felicity would swear not one of her hairs have moved during the fight, and her outfit is as shiny as ever, without so much as a scuff on it. Reaching them, she glances quickly at the two, a strange expression on her face, before she speaks again. “Looks like our hosts have called in reinforcements, I think it's time we left.” Standing in front of the young woman, she takes a second to look at her. “Are you alright? Can you walk?” 

Felicity nods, her head pounding as she does, making her wince. Blinking a little, she takes a quick look at her attacker; he’s lying on the floor, an arrow stuck in his shoulder, knocked out by the force of the hit. She should feel guilty for the guy, but the burning sensation of her injuries prevents her for doing it. Turning towards her friends, she catches Oliver looking at her, right before he shifts to look for an exit. Approaching the archer, she’s about to speak when their coms beep. 

“Guys, you need to go. Now.” The urgency in Diggle’s order is enough to put them in motion. 

Following Oliver, Felicity tries to run as fast as she can, leaving behind her second shoe. It’s easier that way, even if it means hurting her feet in the process. Their escape route is surprisingly free from obstacles, and they get to the van within minutes. Dig’s already behind the wheel, the engine firing up the instant they set foot in the vehicle. 

The journey back to the Foundry is made in total silence. For the first time since she joined the team, the 30 minute ride is spent without anyone talking. Felicity usually makes small talk on those occasions, mostly because silence freaks her out a little and her mouth babbles all the weird thoughts that pass through her head at the time. Not this one though. Dig’s driving, focused on the road ahead of him. She can see him glancing every once in awhile into the rear view mirror to see if anyone is following them, and to check on her too. Stuck in the back, she tries to stay put, aware that Oliver’s eyes have been fixated on her since they left the warehouse. But she can’t look at him right now, the shame is too heavy to allow her to hold her head straight and support his stare. She knows she screwed up and put the team in danger tonight, and she’s fully prepared to face the music once they get back to the lair. But she can’t take the disappointment she will surely find in Oliver’s eyes. Not right now. Not when she’s on the verge of crying all the tears she kept away during the night. 

So, instead of speaking, she busies herself with everything she can. From her tablet, she sends an anonymous tip to the SCPD with the warehouse’s location, joining for good measure a bunch of pictures of the gun shipment stocked there, then monitors from afar the police intervention. She also uses the footage to remotely launch some facial recognition software on her computers back at the Foundry, hoping they will be able to get some names quickly. With this, maybe Oliver and Dig will be able to catch some of the thugs who escaped tonight because of her. Maybe she can do something, anything, that can help improve the situation she created. By the time she witnesses the arrest of a dozen of the gang members by the SCPD, they are back at the lair, Dig parking the van in its usual spot. 

At the Foundry, Sara’s already there with Felicity’s car. She doesn’t linger though; she excuses herself, feigning an early morning at work to leave the lair and its tension. Felicity fires up her monitors, desperate for some good news from her software. She’s also eager to finally have something to break that damn silence that’s killing her. She wants to actually talk to the guys, to apologize for her actions, for being so dumb, for a million things really, but Dig’s busy in the back, cleaning up his weapons and his gear, and Oliver’s been mute since they got in the van, and she can tell he’s pissed from the way his fists are nervously squeezing every once in a while. So she bites on her lips, keeping herself from disturbing their routine, and focuses on checking her computers for updates. 

“Are you alright?” Oliver suddenly asks, breaking the heavy silence. When she lifts her head, he’s looking at her with something on his face she can’t decode. With a movement of his head, he points at her cheekbone. “You should put some ice on it, it’s already bruising but it should keep the swelling to a minimum.” 

Swallowing a little, she nods, grateful he isn’t pissed enough to ignore her anymore. 

“I will, thanks.” She tries to smile, just to assure him she’s okay, but her cut lip stings, making her wince. Before she’s able to hide away, she can see Oliver approaching, a wet cloth in his hand. 

“Let me see,” he orders, his voice low. She raises her chin, more in resignation than in defiance, just in time to watch him fix his attention on her collarbone. His left hand lands on her shoulder, preventing her from moving too much, before he starts swabbing the dry blood from the other side of her torso. She hisses a little at the chilling, sharp sensation of the alcohol on her wound, her eyes shutting instinctively. With her eyes closed, she can focus on the sounds surrounding her, beginning with Oliver. His breathing is even, but she can hear his smile without looking at him. The bastard’s probably laughing at her right now, enjoying her discomfort after the stunt she pulled. Can’t blame the guy, really. She finally opens her eyes again, staring at him while he finishes cleaning up her cut. Soon enough, his eyes travel towards her face and she can’t help but blush at the sudden attention. He’s so close she can feel his breath on her skin, warm and steady. Without any words, he starts washing the blood from her lip, his eyes focused on her mouth. Looking at them, she can see that they aren’t as blue as they usually are, the turmoil he must feel darkening his irises to new shades of blue. While he’s meticulously cleaning her cut, she can’t help but think of all the times she did that to him before tonight. Before Sara showed up, her head reminds her too. Because Sara is good at that too. Thinking about it, she realizes she’s useful when it means staying in the lair. Hidden. She should have stayed there last night. Nothing would have happened if she just knew her place. Swallowing her regrets as Oliver finishes his treatment, she breathes a few times and opens her mouth, ready to take the blame for her mistakes. 

“Oliver, I’m so…”

“Don’t,” he cuts her off. Taking a deep breath, he adds in a softer tone “Please. Don’t.” 

With one last look at her lips, he lets her go and walks to the table in front of her station, where he put his bow when they arrived. She can’t keep her eyes off him though, and she doesn’t have the courage to turn her head away when he begins removing the jacket of his suit. The sight that awaits her makes her audibly gasp. Oliver’s left side is bleeding heavily, caused by a fresh bullet hole.

“Oliver, your side!” Felicity can’t help but say, worry dripping from her voice. 

“It’s nothing,” he growls, unable to hide the pain despite his lie, “it’s just a through and through.”

“Oliver, don’t be stubborn, you clearly need stitches. Let me grab the sewing kit and take care of this.”

His reply, sharp and barely above a whisper, is like a slap in the face. 

“You’ve done enough. Diggle will do it.” He closes his eyes a second, his attempt to remove his undershirt making him grimace. He shakes his head, then adds in a breath “You need to rest. It’s been a long day”. 

Shame makes her blush in an instant, and her eyes burn with tears. She knows he’s upset, she figured out that fact pretty much the instant she really looked at him, back at the warehouse. But this rebuttal, it hurts. Deeply. Because she knows she messed up big time tonight, and she knows being in the field isn’t for her. But she thought she could be helpful back at the lair, and show the team - show Oliver, really - that she could still have a place in this team, even if it was just to mend their wounds. Clearly, she’s been wrong on that one too. Obviously, he doesn’t need her, and doesn’t want her to take on that role. He doesn’t need her help to take care of his injuries, and he probably doesn’t need her to help catch the bad guys either. He has Diggle for that. Dig and Sara. Both competent fighters and trained vigilantes. Not like her. She’s just the weak link of the team. Unable to defend herself, unable to fight. 

Biting on her lips, swallowing her feelings and her pride, she turns towards her work station and picks up the handbag she left there the night before. Shutting down her systems, she internally promises she won’t place herself in dangerous situations like this anymore, not willingly, not when the team’s safety is at risk because of her actions. Taking a deep breath, she faces her teammate once again. 

“You’re right,” she says, her voice low and shaking, “it’s been a long day. It would be better if I go home and don’t cause anymore trouble.” After that, she heads to the stairs, voluntarily ignoring the way Oliver whispers her name - is that contrition or disappointment she’s picking in his voice, she can’t tell - and manages to climb towards the exit without tripping on the steps, despite her wobbly legs. 

When she finally gets out of the Foundry, she’s surprised by a breeze of fresh morning air. The sun is almost up now, but the air is still chilly and makes her cheeks prickle for a moment. She squints her nose a little then gulps a few times, trying really hard to keep the teardrops from falling from her eyes. Looking at the sky, she can see hints of the sun’s rays peeking behind the tall buildings in the background. Spotting her car parked near Verdant’s entrance, she painfully walks towards it, trying to decide what to do next. Usually, being out at this hour on a Sunday morning would mean she’s heading towards her favorite coffee shop and bakery to pick up some goods to go with her TV marathon. 

But right now, she just wants to go home and be alone. She wants to take a shower, ice that damn cheek which hurts like hell, and curl up on her couch. And after a day like this, she deserves to enjoy a pint of mint chip ice cream, and half a bottle of red. Maybe the whole bottle. She doesn’t care if it’s nearly 7am, she’s going to enjoy it and not feel guilty for a second that she consumed it all by herself. That’s what loners do after all, they use the solitude to think, to enjoy life without being bothered by (or bother_ing _) anyone, and when things get tough, they use the loneliness to rest and regroup. Maybe today, Felicity will add another activity a loner like her often does when they’re alone : she will cry.

**>>---> | <---<<**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think ;)  
You can reach me on Twitter too : @thisiselley

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think ;)  
You can reach me on Twitter too : @thisiselley


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